


blood, a flood of rubies

by suisei (nanakomatsus)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29332764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanakomatsus/pseuds/suisei
Summary: "If you wait by the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies will float by."in which the prince of the highlands finds himself in the possession of the giant killer by the sea
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	blood, a flood of rubies

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the bridgerton musical on tiktok, the song ['i burn'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KzHIoDIxbho) in particular

What once was a meadow dotted with bluebells is now an ashen field, blackened with dried blood and littered with decaying bodies. The greying skies rumble with the promise of a storm. A breeze washes over him, bringing with it a strange, unfamiliar scent, one that fills his nasal cavity with an itch, intermingling with the smell of iron and rot. The lone soldier falls to his knees, retching.

There’s a rumbling once more, this one bringing with it a different kind of trouble; a hundred or so footfalls and their carriages. He can barely stand up, hands tightening around the hilt of his sword; it is engraved with the emblematic vines of his House, now grimy with dirt and flesh. A hand weaves itself through his mud-caked hair, yanking his head violently upward.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Comes a mocking voice, then a sleazy grin and a shock of red hair.

“Unhand me,” he hisses, throat burning from the single act. The man chuckles and motions to his fellow soldiers with a wiggle of his finger.

“What do you think?” He asks them as they step forward uneasily, ignoring the man whose head he could snap right off at any moment. One of them clears their throat.

“A precious find, sir. We should bring him back with us.” The voice sounds young, probably belonging to a boy of no older than fifteen. The man chuckles in response, his grip tightening as he brings his other hand up to cup his captive’s chin, turning his head this way and that, studying him like one would a small, harmless woodland animal.

The captive grimaces as the man leans in close, lips ghosting his cheek. A manic smile spreads across the man’s face, one he feels against his skin. It makes him feel sick again.

“Should I not snap his neck? After all, he did slaughter an entire company on his own-” the redhead begins gleefully, but he is cut off by a calm voice.

“He may prove to be of use to us. We’ll bring him back,” it says, tone firm and final.

The man smirks. A feeling worse than anything else before this creeps up the captive’s spine. “In more ways than one I hope,” he sneers, before throwing him back to the ground and snapping his fingers to which his underlings surge forward, locking the lone soldier in place, though it’s not like he has any chance of escaping.

They dump him unceremoniously into a wagon filled with crimson-dyed armour, some with limbs still attached to them. The last thing he sees before they draw the wood up is the chilling, sinister grin of the red-haired man, baring his fang-like teeth.

And then it is dark. He piles the surrounding metal up around him and makes as much space as he can for his mangled knee. Settling flat against the creaking blood-soaked wooden floor, he allows himself to be pulled into a harsh, dreamless slumber.

⚜

It is that smell that wakes him. The one he’d caught a whiff of in the blackened meadow, except now its stench is more acute, its itch filling his throat and lungs. The wheels of the wagon crackle against uneven ground, as if they were treading upon crushed stones. A chill runs up his spine. As if they were treading on crushed bones.

There’s a slight commotion outside as men begin shouting. The wagon slows, lurching heavily from side to side as they continue their journey upon the crackling mass underneath them.

Then, comes a howling wind, one that sounds like a woman’s mournful cry, echoing through an empty hallway. Along with it is the unmistakable sound of water. But nothing like the sweet trickle of the rivers that surround his home, alight with life. This sounds angry, crashing upon wet ground in waves.  _ Waves _ . 

Are they close to what he’s heard is called an ocean?

He hasn’t any time to ponder upon it before there’s the somewhat familiar sound of a drawbridge yawning open. Beyond it, there are cheers, welcoming their soldiers home. He closes his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath.

Whatever lies in wait for him ahead, he will accept, be it torture or an instant death-

The wagon door drops open with a crash against hard ground. For a brief moment, the sticky, itchy smell fills his entire being before a sack is thrown over his head and shackles are placed around his hands and feet. 

Then he is dragged across the gravel, his knees scraping the ground, his pained screams muffled by the thick fabric that reeks of manure.

He’s barely conscious by the time they let him go, allowing his body to fall forward, his head throbbing against smooth stone. The light is blinding, painful even, though the cool air provides some relief as his head is released from its entrapment. The voices around him are buzzing lowly, but he can’t make out a single word through his thoughts, numb with pain.

The space falls quiet not a moment later. There is not a sound but the crackling of fire. He senses two figures looming behind him and when a hand roughly pulls him by the scruff of his neck to sit upright, he guesses it’s the two men from before. He blinks, vision pulling in and out of focus.

In front of him sits an imposing figure upon a hulking throne made of wood and obsidian, slightly raised upon a dais of porcelain-tiled stone. The first thing the captive notices about the man is his eyes, the furrow of his brows denoting his mild distaste. 

(There’s a tinge of something else he can’t quite place, something like pity... or not. Whatever it is, his stomach begins to churn; he doesn’t need that.) 

Next, is the man’s perfect posture; his strong jaw is set, his chin straight - not raised, not in the way so many other noblemen do to proclaim their callous pride. He studies the captive on his knees not unkindly or sneeringly, his eyes lingering on the man in tatters with a curiosity that is simple and almost childlike.

Before he has any time to linger on it, the captive feels cold fingers weaving through his scalp, yanking his head up, sending a searing pain down his spine. He almost cries out, but bites his lip so as not to allow a single gasp to escape. Not that it matters; he’d already ruined his throat just a while ago as they dragged him to this great hall. But he’ll take what he can get.

The redhead’s eyes flicker to him in disgust, obviously dissatisfied with not having the new captive writhe and mewl in his hands as he’d planned. Then, plastering on a grin, he turns his gaze to the man on the throne, tightening his hold on the captive’s locks, relishing in the way the man’s body tenses just beneath him.

“Your lordship, we bring with us a valuable prize; the feared monster who’d slain the fifth company at yesterday’s battle. We present him to you now as a trophy, a token of gratitude for your tactical leadership that led us to victory,” he finishes with a flourish. 

There is a tense pause as the audience holds their breath for their leader’s response. All the man does is nod.

“Thank you, Satori. You and your men have done well. Rest now, and feast as your hearts desire.” His voice is an imposing baritone, ringing around the space like a clap of thunder, though there is nothing cruel about it. 

“As for him,” the man turns his gaze to the captive. “Leave us be.” 

That seems to be the end of it. There’s a collective thud as the crowd stamps their feet as one in a show of respect, before they begin to filter out of the hall abuzz, excitable for the festivities awaiting them. The strain on his scalp eases as the man, Satori, releases him from his grip, pushing him back down on his knees for good measure.

Then, it is empty but for the ruler and his newly-acquired war prize.

“Raise your head.” It’s not a command, there is nothing forceful about it. He keeps his neck craned, though his eyes flicker to the man’s face glaring at him.

“State your name and rank.”

The captive grits his teeth, raising the upper half of his body by his shaking arms.

“I’m a prisoner now, aren’t I? Those mean nothing until I am released.”

“They mean something to me.”

That catches him off guard. In fact, everything about the situation is not at all playing out how he’d imagined it to be in his head. He’d been waiting for his death sentence, his banishing to the underground cellars where hunger and eventually disease await him. Not pompous dialogue with his captor.

“Only so you can use it to your advantage,” he bites out. He’s expecting a change in the man’s demeanour, a dark shadow to be cast upon his mild facade, a sudden boom of anger. But nothing.

The man regards him neutrally and calls out for a servant. “Kenjirou, bring him to my chambers and tend to his injuries. And draw him a bath,” he says to the light-haired young man, who nods attentively.

His vision begins to swim, and his arms give out, his cheek meeting the cold floor once more. The last thing Oikawa sees is the man rising from his throne, and something like concern flashing across his features. 

Or not.

⚜

The smell of mint and the feel of warmth encasing him is what wakes him the next time. The room glows orange around him, the soft light of the fire at a far end of the space muting the shine of the impossibly clean white marble walls and floor. Here, there is nothing else but himself in this great angular pool of herbs.

Colourful petals float about him en masse; orange calendula, pink yarrow buds and specks of goldenrod. The pain in his knee has now subsided to a dull throb, one that aches terribly but gone is the sharp pain up his bones from before.

“His lordship is waiting for you, scum,” comes the young boy’s deadpan tone. Oikawa scoffs. “You’re not a very nice boy are you, Kenjirou?” He sing-songs. The pain in his throat has also somewhat eased.

“Don’t keep him waiting,” is all the boy says without hint of any affliction from the captive’s mocking tone. The wooden door closes with a dull thud. Oikawa sighs. He could keep the man waiting for another couple of hours, if he’d like.

The very fact that he’d waited until now is a sign that the man isn’t exactly partial towards violence. But then again, Oikawa would rather not push his luck. He rises from the water, a chilling breeze of that itchy smell assaulting him as soon as he does. He looks up to the small opening high on the wall, grimacing.

They dress him in simple linen garments and wrap his knee with fresh herbs and a reluctance that isn’t hard to miss. Kenjirou leads him through a maze of corridors until they reach what is probably the other end of the castle, coming to a stop by a large, wooden door. Carved into the mahogany are delicate depictions of birds wandering an elegant landscape. Swans. Of course.

“You may enter.”

Kenjirou nudges him at the base of his back and closes the door before the man can hiss at him. His captor stands in wait at the far end of the large room, pensively looking out of one of the large, arched windows. It’s a decidedly simple space with a large four-post bed at one end. The dark wooden panels lining the walls again feature exquisitely carved landscapes, though Oikawa can’t quite make out what they depict.

The man regards him solemnly, turning just the slightest bit to face him. He is dressed down in similar linen nightwear, looking far younger than he did upon the imposing dais a couple hours earlier. “Sit,” he says, motioning to a modest dining table already filled with platters of food at the center of the room, underneath a dimly lit chandelier. Again, it is a simple request, not an order.

They sit facing each other, neither making any move to begin the meal.

“Your wounds, were they taken care of?” He begins blandly. Oikawa regards him warily with a single nod. Up close, he is much younger than Oikawa had first thought him to be. They may even be of the same age. His tanned skin seems to glow under the muted orange light surrounding them.

“How should I address you?” He inquires. Diplomatically worded, Oikawa will give him that. But he’s no fool to give away such important information in exchange for a bath and some meagre food.

“Your name and your rank,” Oikawa responds, throwing his own words back at him, meeting his gaze coolly.

“Ushijima Wakatoshi, son of Marquess Utsui Takashi, progenitor of the House of Swan.”

The captive smirks, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Then you may address me as ‘your grace’. Oikawa Tooru, brother to the empress of the Blue Castle, sole male heir of the House of Vines,” he drawls.

“You’re a prince, and yet you ended up on the frontlines of a petty territorial skirmish,” the man, Ushijima, states flatly. Oikawa narrows his eyes at him, taking a long swig of his wine.

“Call it what you want. A man who sits in his mighty castle while his army is almost single handedly defeated by a lone bowman wouldn’t know a thing about honour.”

“Yet here you are,” Ushijima reiterates calmly, picking up his eating utensils, slicing into meat. Oikawa rolls his eyes.

“Here I am. And what do you plan to do with me?” He says bitterly, finishing the last of his drink. It goes sour on his tongue.

Ushijima ponders on this for a long moment, continuing to cut into his dinner. “You may leave, if you wish.”

That stops Oikawa in his tracks. He pauses, setting down the wine bottle to glare at the other man.

“Do you think I am so foolish as to believe that?”  _ This man has been looking down upon me all this time, _ he thinks to himself, incensed _.  _ “This is all part of your ploy, is it not? Butter me up and lead me to believe I will escape this desolate place scot free?” He leans forward, lowering his voice.

“I will not stand for your trickery. My men will come to rain misery upon you and your barbaric lowland bunch and until then, I will wait my days out patiently,”

Because though this Ushijima may not have guards at every corner waiting to spear him in the back as soon as he steps out of the palace gates, Oikawa is sure the marshlands surrounding them won’t be as forgiving. So he will wait for his army to come. He’s sure they will.

He leans back into his chair, having played his cards, and takes another swig of wine. Ushijima remains passive, though his eyes are now stormy and dark, mirroring the weather that rages outside the stained glass windows. It is the most emotion he’s seen the man show since he’s gotten here. A good start.

He doesn’t say anything, merely continuing with his meal. Oikawa drains yet another goblet full of the intoxicating liquid, leaving everything else untouched.

“I will have Kenjirou lead you to your chambers,” is all he says after, tone chilly. Oikawa takes it as a win, spinning on his heel out the door without a glance over his shoulder.

⚜

He doesn’t sleep and instead lies awake to the sound of waves crashing upon the nearby shore, waiting for his door to creak open, and for a sharpened dagger to embed itself in his chest.

⚜

No such thing happens and he blinks awake the next day with a headache, the pain in his knee returning. On his window sill lands a strange looking bird. It regards him strangely, as if possessing intelligence and begins to squawk.

The door creaks open then and he lets out a surprised yelp only to find Kenjirou staring at him disinterestedly, a tray of herbs and a roll of new dressing for his leg along with a change of clothes in his hands. 

“His lordship awaits you for a morning meal,” he announces hollowly. Oikawa clicks his tongue irritably. What does the oaf want with him now?

He is dressed in an elegant brown tunic with fine embroidery along its collar and hem. Kenjirou leads him to the same room as the night before. Again, Ushijima is waiting for him by the windows. Again, he looks much younger than Oikawa had taken him for, under the pale grey of the cloudy sky. They must be the same age.

“Oikawa,” the taller man acknowledges him with a nod. Oikawa regards him coldly.

“To what pleasure do I owe you this fine morning, your lordship?” He sing-songs. Ushijima stiffens, agitated.

“Tea,” he says, ignoring the other man’s mocking tone.

They sit facing each other once more. The smell of honey and lemon fills the air, along with, of course, that itch. Oikawa clears his throat, setting his cup down with a  _ clink _ .

“Do you not wish to kill me, Lord Ushijima?”

The man stiffens at that, glaring heatedly at him. Once more, Ushijima acts outside of Oikawa’s expectations of him, but he doesn’t flinch.

“I do not wish for a war,” the young lord says, voice low.

“Was your encroaching upon the meadowland not an act of malice?” Oikawa retorts.  _ What a coward. _

“That was a misunderstanding,” he replies stiffly. Oikawa frowns at that.  _ Misunderstanding? _

“Do elaborate, your lordship,” he prods, lifting his chin. For the first time, hesitation flickers across Ushijima’s eyes.

“A conflict of interests.” He leaves it as that. Their platters are soon cleared and they are left staring at each other from across an empty dining table.

“Leave.”

Oikawa does so.

He spends the better part of the day staring out the window of his chambers, watching as the waves crash upon the sand, watching the tide pull out in the evening. Kenjirou brings him his meal, emptily apologizing on the lord’s behalf, saying that Ushijima has a meeting with his council.

After, Oikawa takes to looking out the window once more. The stars here are the same as back home. It provides him some relief and he falls into a light slumber.

⚜

He wakes early the next morning and the morning after that, assuming his perch by the window after every meal, staring listlessly out the horizon.

It is on the sixth morning of his captivity that Kenjirou does not poke his head through the door. Instead, it is Oikawa who turns his head this way and that tentatively, looking out for any sign of life. The castle is hauntingly quiet. He takes a step out, and another and another until he’s tracing his path down the corridor towards Ushijima’s chambers. Except he takes a sudden left a couple hallways before and stumbles across a spiralling stone staircase, one that smells of something sweet.

He follows it through an arched entrance without a door. It opens up to a modest-sized balcony overgrown with greenery and wildflowers. The smell of the sea washes over him except this time, it is a welcome scent, nothing like the lingering, mouldy salt within the enclosed spaces. He even has a clear view of the vast beach and the horizon stretching further than his mind can comprehend.

He spends a while there, clearing a small space to sit on the wide, mossy balustrade. As he leans back against the cold stone wall, he thinks he can get used to the smell of the sea.

He is called upon once more for dinner. It is unusually quiet this time around. Ushijima says nothing, so he doesn’t either. At the end, all he gets is a ‘ _ You may leave now’ _ and turns on the balls of his feet out the door.

He finds himself on that secluded balcony the next day and the next. Revelling in the cool autumn breeze, his mind begins to wander. What is it about Ushijima Wakatoshi that irks him so? 

Is it his unreadable poker face, scrutinizing him under that calm facade? Is it his dull tone, providing neither comfort nor cruelty? Or is it his misplaced kindness towards Oikawa, who under any other circumstances, should be dead by now?

Oikawa looks over the balcony, at the rocky cliff edge on which the castle he has yet to fully explore sits precariously, the sea raging below.  _ What if- _

“You’re here,” comes a low voice. Oikawa turns lazily to find Ushijima ducking his head to enter through the low doorway. His large frame fills the entrance, accentuated by the hefty leather garments he wears. He must’ve just returned from another council session.

“How did you find me?” The fairer man asks, displeased that his little hiding spot has been exposed. Ushijima’s solemn gaze finds his own. “The maids see everything.”

Oikawa clicks his tongue. “Of course.”

There is an awkward pause between them as they let the sounds of the waves fill the gap in the conversation for a moment. Then, “I want to show you something.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen in mild surprise. “Oh?”

Without another word, Ushijima exits the balcony but before he turns the corner into the main corridor, he holds a gloved hand out. An invitation. Oikawa passes him by without a glance.

Ushijima leads them up the spiral staircase and through the corridors, now bustling with preparations for lunch and other daily chores. The servants’ eyes trail on them curiously, suspiciously but other than that they mostly avert their gazes, busying themselves.

They go up, and up. The hallways are wider here, the air cooler and more pleasant. They finally reach a large courtyard. The smell of flowers and herbs fill Oikawa’s lungs. A garden of wisterias, chrysanthemums and camellias greet them, dotting great hedges of various leafy herbs.

Kenjirou is there, setting the table at the center for what looks to be lunch. He regards Oikawa with his usual coldness but doesn’t dare to say a word with his master present, so ducks his head in a reluctant bow and leaves them be.

“You hail from the mountains, yes?” Ushijima asks. Oikawa hums distractedly, fingertips grazing the fragrant plants as he treads round the perimeter of the garden, admiring the colourful growth.

The taller man takes his seat first, silently observing the other. His features soften in the littlest, his heartbeat hammering a little faster in his chest, catching a glimpse of the pale skin of the brunette’s throat as he tilts his head upwards to observe a cherry blossom hung from a low branch.

He doesn’t manage to look away in time before a pair of caramel brown irises meet his own. Oikawa drops his hand, expression going slack as he joins the young lord at the table.

He doesn’t say anything as Ushijima pours tea for the both of them, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“My mountains,” Oikawa begins suddenly, much to Ushijima’s surprise. “Their beauty is unmatched.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“But this garden of yours… It’s impressive, I’ll give it that,” he says begrudgingly. “Who tends to it?”

Ushijima’s expression softens. Oikawa averts his gaze. It is not something he wants to see, that kindness.

“Kenjirou.”

“Ah.”

“I’ll relay your compliments.”

Oikawa shakes his head, “I’ll tell him myself.”

Then, after a hesitant beat, “What are your intentions with me?”

“Dinner.”

Oikawa’s head whips round to face him again, puzzled. “What?”

“I hope to meet you again for dinner.”

The brunette scoffs mirthlessly. “It does you no good to disguise an order as a request, your lordship.”

“I wasn’t-”

“Kenjirou will see to it, then?” He asks pointedly, suddenly rising from his seat. Ushijima mimics him, pushing his chair back with a little more force than he’d intended. It falls with a soft thud against the thick grass.

“Yes, he will.”

Oikawa suppresses an amused smile and turns away, leaving a reddened Ushijima standing slightly winded at the center of his luscious garden.

⚜

They dress him in silk tonight. The feeling of the fabric against his skin is familiar. The violet robe they drape over his shoulders is heavy with intricate embroidery.  _ Swans,  _ he dully notes.

The meal starts off quiet, nothing but the clinking of metal and the howling wind muffled beyond the windows. Ushijima’s eyes train Oikawa’s lithe fingers, tracking his graceful movements. He cuts into the meat easily, the sleeve of his robe riding up as he saws deftly through his food. Just when Ushijima feels his mouth dry as the other man’s fair forearm is exposed, he glances away, taking a swig of wine.

But he can’t help himself, and his eyes go to Oikawa’s throat now as he throws his head back, relishing in the sweet aftertaste of the alcohol. His lips glisten faintly as he pulls the goblet away from his mouth, now cast with a thin, moist red film. Ushijima picks at his vegetables.

It continues this way for a long time, almost until the end of their meal, when the maids have cleared their platters, replacing them with finer, delicate crockery for desert. On tonight’s menu is fruit cake, syrupy and brittle, topped with strawberries. From the mountains.

He watches Oikawa’s reaction to them, watches as he cautiously, almost hesitantly picks one and tentatively bites on it. He expects a wave of emotion, but the brunette merely takes another bite, expression turning darker and darker.

Then, Oikawa lifts his head, their eyes meeting. He has been aware of Ushijima’s observations this entire time. His expression is now uncharacteristically flat. Ushijima waits for him to speak. Instead, he stands.

Tensing, Ushijima watches as he slowly takes one step after another towards him, his lips parting to speak.

“I will only ask this once again, young lord. What do you expect of me?”

Oikawa is looming over him now, a shadow cast upon his face as his back is turned towards the fireplace. Ushijima’s gaze is steady on his, betraying no alarm or any emotion at all, for that matter. It makes him angrier, but not as angry as the answer that comes with it.

“Nothing.”

Oikawa scoffs, because it is a ridiculous one. An insulting one.

“I don’t believe you,” he mutters, his eyes glowing hot with rage. But Ushijima doesn’t falter, meeting him with a cool, calm stare. He holds his hand out.

Oikawa has half a mind to douse him with wine and flee into the marshland, far, far away from this desolate place. But there is that kindness in Ushijima’s olive green eyes, one that is so genuine he would be a fool and worse, a coward not to acknowledge. He slowly presses his fingers to the man’s palm.

With that, the young lord stands to his full height. They are eye-to-eye, the air around them shifting as if their interaction has created a force of its own around them.

The pads of Ushijima’s fingers are rough as they slide against his until they’re clasping his whole hand. The young lord brings it up to his chest, placing it flat against the silk of his tunic, enclosing it with his own, warm. His heart is beating rapidly, its thumping so pronounced it is as if Oikawa were holding it in his bare hand. He gulps.

“I don’t understand,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He feels his anger ebbing away. Ushijima studies him intently, concluding that yes, he does understand. He waits patiently.

Oikawa’s gaze falters as he blinks rapidly. Ushijima’s other hand slides up the side of his waist, tracing his jaw with a calloused finger before stopping to rest at the side of his face, palm cupping his cheek, thumb grazing his skin gently.

“Do you understand now?” Ushijima’s voice comes out low and raspy. The tension in Oikawa’s body loosens, his eyes clearing. He shakes his head slightly, stubborn.

“Enlighten me.”

For the first time, Ushijima’s lips quirk slightly, their corners upturned. Swiftly, he presses their mouths together, pulling away before Oikawa can reciprocate. This causes a slight frown to form, brown orbs narrowing at him.

“Your grace?” Ushijima’s voice is a rumble throughout both their bodies, prompting. Oikawa glares at him, though there is no malice behind it, only desire.

“Continue.”

He obliges, capturing Oikawa’s lips with his once more.

⚜

Ushijima Wakatoshi, under all his bronze, sinewy muscle, is a rather docile lover.

Oikawa’s breath hitches when the man takes him whole in his mouth. The veins on his neck protrude, tensing and relaxing as he performs his ministrations while Oikawa slides himself in and out, fingers curled in his hair, maneuvering him to his own liking.

He doesn’t gag, even when Oikawa feels his tip breaching the back of the man’s throat. The brunette smirks, slowly retracting himself before ramming back in, just to get a reaction. Ushijima’s nails dig into his hips, eliciting a guttural sound.  _ That’ll do. _

Oikawa’s fingers tighten in the man’s locks, easing him off with a _ pop _ , ropes of white painting his face at the last second. Then he lowers himself onto the bed, propping himself up with his elbows.

Ushijima’s still got his knees on the Persian rug, chest heaving. He’s impossibly handsome, Oikawa admits to himself, with his lips glistening and red from use, a healthy flush colouring his bronze skin. Most of all, it’s his cock, leaking and throbbing in wait, so pretty with want, peeking through the loosened fabric of his robe.

Oikawa smiles sweetly, lifting an eyebrow. “What in the heavens are you waiting for?” He sing-songs. 

With that, the man rises, the last of his coverings falling away as he towers over Oikawa, like a Greek god in his true form. His eyes are dark, overcome with lust, drawing ever closer.

“Your grace,” he growls, lips finding purchase on Oikawa’s neck, licking and sucking at the soft flesh between his chin and throat, tracing the ridge of his Adam’s apple down to the curve of his collarbones.

At the same time, he idly bucks his hips, teasing the fairer man’s entrance, dragging his cock lazily across sensitive skin. The action draws an irritable grunt from Oikawa, though his complaints soon die in his throat as Ushijima clamps his mouth over a pebbled bud on his chest, lapping at it. Against his better judgement, Oikawa lets out a whimper.

He feels Ushijima’s lips tug into a smirk and is about to curse himself inwardly before the word manifests itself into a scream that tumbles from his mouth as Ushijima enters him with a single, harsh thrust.

His cries are swallowed by the man on top of him as Ushijima’s lips find his in a desperate, wet open-mouthed kiss.  _ He tastes like strawberries, _ Oikawa notes. 

He’d found them bland and sour on the cake that was served earlier but now, as their teeth clack and they explore each other’s mouths, it tastes sweet. Sweet like the dozens he’d devour on a picnic in the glades behind his home. Sweet like a summer’s day.

_ “Ah, ah, don’t stop!” _ he cries out against Ushijima’s ear, tasting the sweat that rolls down in beads, nibbling on the soft skin of the man’s lobe.

Ushijima’s pace is blistering, the heat created from the friction of the chafing of their chests serving only to remind Oikawa of the man’s viciousness. He remembers now, the rumours of the Giant Killer of the flatlands, a being said to be a giant himself.

_ He is no giant,  _ Oikawa thinks as he calls out Ushijima’s name over and over,  _ he’s human and he’s warm and he fucks like a man starved. _

The bed rocks violently beneath them as Ushijima’s relentless pace only seems to pick up as he chases his own high. Oikawa’s cries of pleasure meld with its creaks, his cock throbbing painfully, his walls clenching tightly despite how spent he is, the evidence glistening on his abdomen.

“Take me,” Ushijima says roughly. It is the closest he’s ever been to giving him an order. Oikawa nods, panting, his pink lips swollen, saliva dribbling down the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” he croaks, his throat ragged despite having just healed.

A couple hard, fast thrusts later, Ushijima lets out a cry and releases himself. Oikawa lets out a gasp, all the air leaving his lungs as his vision blurs to white, back arching off the bed.

He thinks he sees stars, stars like the ones he’d been observing all these nights from the window of his chambers, framed by thin, grey clouds. Stars he’d observed from the clocktower back home. He blinks.

Now, he sees a pair of olive green eyes, turned a deep ochre under the glow of the fire. They are clear, no longer stormed over by the haze of lust. Now, they look at him, piercing his soul, looking for  _ something... _

“Did I explain myself well enough?” Ushijima asks breathlessly, his hot breath against Oikawa’s lips.

Caramel irises widen in surprise before the brunette scoffs, unable to hide the first genuine smile Ushijima has ever seen grace his beautiful face.

“Not quite.”

**Author's Note:**

> first time writing full-on smut, not sure what to feel about it ;; ;


End file.
